The Dreaming Spires

by William Kingshart

  For want of a better word, I’d have to say he was a guy—a man—but he really wasn’t. He was huge—and I really mean huge. When he eventually stood, I figured he was about nine feet tall. His body was a bit like the Hulk, if the Hulk stopped going to the gym. And he wasn’t green. He was a kind of yellowish-brown. Each of his feet was about the size of two laptops. His hands were like ten-pound sacks of potatoes, and his head and face looked as though a giant condom had been stuffed with walnuts.

  He tore off a hunk of meat with his teeth, chewed a moment and realized I was there, staring at him. He grinned through a mouth full of broken tombstones and torn meat. He wiped his mouth with the back of his arm and said what sounded like, “Kay-ed meelah, fallcha row-it!”

  I said, “What the f…?” as my legs started to tremble uncontrollably and I sank slowly to the ground till I was sitting on the grass. A horrible noise issued from his throat, which I eventually realized was laughter.

  “You don’t remember me, do you, lad—or the old tongue? Got any ale there?”

  I just gaped and a made strange, amputated noise.

  He watched me a bit then spat on the grass. “Get a grip, lad. I’m Gorm. Remember?” He laughed again. “My own memory isn’t all that good, I confess!” His face contorted and his left eye bulged at me as he leaned forward. “But I have an excuse. I’m three thousand years old”—he sat back and picked at his teeth with a long fingernail—“give or take a century. But you? You’re naught but a wee whippersnapper!”

  I said, “Am…am….am…”

  “What?”

  “Am I hallucinating? Am I having a psychotic break?”

  He opened his mouth, screwed up his eyes and made a noise like a thousand bulls with cattle prods stuck where they really didn’t want them. He was laughing again. “Feck off are ya! Feckin’ psy-feckin’-chotic feckin’ break! Ye feckin’ gobshite! Only humans get psychotic coz of their brains, see? They’re so feckin’ narrow! Anything that isn’t”—and he made a square box shape with his hands as he spoke—“in the wee-tidy box drives them crazy! They lose it, I tell yiz.”

  He set to chewing on his leg of lamb again. I watched him a moment and said, “I am. I’m crazy. I’m sitting here in the garden talking to a nine-foot gnome called Gorm about how people can’t think outside the box.”

  He swallowed then belched loudly, causing the pond to ripple. “Gorm Chompsky, at your service. It was I who brought you to this world. I, who cared for you during your first days.”

  “Chompsky?” I began to laugh. “So you are Gnome Chompsky?”

  “The very same!”

  “Now I know I’m crazy.” We sat in silence, one disturbed only by his chewing and belching, and slowly his words began to filter through to me. I said, “Wait…”

  He cocked his head but continued chewing.

  I said again, “Wait. Remember you? Remember you? How could I re… Brought me here? What do you mean brought me here?”

  “Sure. Do you remember nothing? Jaysus!” He slapped his forehead with his palm and said something that sounded like, “A vaw jean, tho-wur fy-adh dhum! Do you not remember me bringing yiz here when you was no more than two years old?”

  I stood and threw my arms in the air. “Of course I don’t! A, I don’t remember when I was two. And B, I wasn’t here when I was two. I was in—”

  He looked surprised. “You don’t remember when you was two? Neither do I, as a matter of fact, but then I’m three thousand years old.”

  “Stop saying that. You are not— You cannot be three thousand years old. Nobody is three thousand years old.”

  He raised a horrible eyebrow at me and looked down at his vast, knobby body, then back at me.

  “Okay,” I said, “nobody looks like you, either. Nobody is a gnome like you. Nobody is…can be…like…you!” I flopped to the ground again and buried my face in my hands. “This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening. It isn’t…”

  There was silence for a bit and I began to think that maybe, when I opened my eyes, he’d be gone. A loud belch told me I was wrong. I looked up and all ghastly seven hundred and twenty-nine cubic feet of him was still there. He’d finished the meat and was gnawing on the bone. “Are you done? Only I have to get back. Did I ask if you had ale? My memory ain’t what it was.”

  I despaired, and with despair came a strange kind of peace. I said, “All right. You’re here, real or not. What do you want? Why are you here?”

  He frowned and there was a deep rumble I realized was a thoughtful, “Hmm…” Then his face cleared. “Ah…I have to tell yiz something. A message.”

  “A message?”

  “Aye, let me see… Ah, yes. You’re a changeling.”

  “I’m a what?”

  “A changeling. You was changed at birth.”

  I spread my hands, shaking my head, moving my mouth, trying to form any one of a thousand questions I wanted to ask.

  Not one went beyond phonemes. “Wha…?” and “B…!”

  He was grinning now, showing the tombstones he had for teeth, and raised a finger. “See, the real Jake Norgard is now living in Tír na nÓg, and you are living here with his human parents.”

  Somehow the words spilled out. “What are you talking about? Human parents? And where the hell is teernan…whatever?”

  “Oh, Tír na nÓg is the land of the eternally young. Ti’s over yonder. West, in another dimension of time and space. It’s the land of the fairy folk. Tall fairies, small fairies, leprechauns, gnomes like my good self… And you yourself belong to the tall fairies—the elven folk—hence your dashing good looks and splendid figure, if I may say so.”

  “I’m a fairy? You are telling me I am a fairy? Are you crazy?”

  “I told you. Only humans go crazy…on account of the boxes.” He made the boxes movements with his hands. “But your mother and father are very fine, beautiful elven folk. And Jake is very happy with them. A fine lad…for a human.”

  My mind was reeling. “So, what? My mom and dad aren’t my mom and dad? I-I’m a…what? I’m an orphan? I’m…like, adopted? They just gave me up? Why?”

  He laughed mildly. “Isn’t it the crazy capers of fairy folk? They do love a jape. Swap a child here, drain the blood from a cow there. Always up to some mischief. No telling what they’ll do next.”

  I felt hollow. I went quiet then I said, “You’re telling me my parents swapped me for another child for kicks? For a laugh?”

  He sighed. “Fairies will be fairies.” He could see I was upset and leaned forward to place one of his massive, gnarled hands on my shoulder. “Ah, don’t be upset, lad. Don’t your human parents love you? They don’t know you’re a changeling, by the way.”

  “I guess…”

  “Sure, and it’s not all bad. In compensation, in your seventeenth year, you come in to your powers.”

  “My powers?”

  “That’s right, lad. Your powers!”

  Powers. Powers is one of those words that has a nice ring to it.

  So, maybe I was given up by supernatural birth parents I had never known, but I was thinking that, from what I remembered of my mom, I wouldn’t have swapped her for any mother in the world. And my dad was about as cool as dads get. And powers… If I wasn’t going crazy and this crap was real, powers would be very cool. Actually, I was thinking about how I could use those powers to woo Ciara.

  I said, “Powers? What powers?”

  He stood. It was like talking to an office building. “First,” he said, “you shall be invincible.”

  “Invincible? Cooool!” I could already see myself knocking seven bells out of Brutus Muller while Ciara looked on in awe.

  Then Gorm said, “Aye! Invincible…with a sword.”

  “With a sword? Are you kidding? Nobody uses a sword anymore. What use is that power to me, Gorm?”

  “Sorry, lad. I’m just the messenger. Your second power…and you’ll like this. This is grand as aught.” He chuckled. “All your arrows shall fly true to
their mark. Is that grand or what?”

  I sighed and rolled my eyes. “Great! I can be the archery champion of the world. Have you got anything useful in your bag of tricks?”

  He scowled at me. “Ungrateful little fecker.” Then his face lit up. “Ah, now! You’ll like this one. Many a man has made his fortune with this one. This is a grand thing and no mistake.”

  I eyed him. ‘Made his fortune’ sounded good. I said, “Go on. Lay it on me. What is it?”

  “You shall be able to read any person’s mind at will by simply concentrating on them. How’s that for a power, eh? How’s that?”

  I covered my face with my hands. “Are you kidding me, Gorm? That is totally immoral. You can’t go around spying on people’s minds. What is wrong with you? That is so totally not cool, man.”

  “Jaysus! Is there no feckin’ pleasin’ you?”

  “Not with powers that haven’t been useful for half a millennium or are totally immoral. No! Is there anything else? Anything useful?”

  “There may be, but I don’t remember, if I’m perfectly honest. My memory isn’t what it used to be.”

  “I know, you’re three thousand years old—give or take. I can’t fly or turn invisible?”

  “Don’t be daft.”

  I sighed. I felt suddenly dejected. “Is there at least some cool quest I get to go on? Find a crystal or save a princess? Take a ring to the Cracks of Doom?”

  He looked at me like I was crazy. “No… Why would you?”

  “So, this was just a laugh. My parents thought it would be a gas to swap me.”

  “That’s about the size of it, lad. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must be getting along, as it seems you have no ale.”

  There was a flash of green light. I heard a weird, high-pitched shout, and suddenly, I was alone. For a few seconds I felt a burning on my chest but it passed, then there was just the silence of the dusk and the long, complicated song of the blackbird on the chimney.

  I stared a long time at the garden bench. Did it happen? Was it real? Did I hallucinate? Did I, in fact, have a psychotic break? Maybe it had just been a dream. I glanced at my watch. September evenings in England are very long and the twilight lasts for hours. Even so, I was astonished to see that it was a quarter to nine. I had been sitting there for four hours.

  I stood and made my way back. Through the open French windows, I could see the house was dark, but as I stepped in, the light in the hall came on. Then there was Rosie’s voice, and my dad’s, calling me. I stood waiting. Rosie’s silhouette filled the doorway and the light snapped on.

  “Jake? Are you okay? What are you doing here in the dark?”

  I pointed back, out, through the open windows. “I was in the garden…listening to the blackbirds.”

  She frowned then smiled. “How sweet.”

  Dad pushed past her, laughing. “Next you’ll be writing poetry. Run up and get washed, son. Dinner in half an hour. Martini, Rosie?”

  As I passed her, she put a hand on my chest. I looked down and was surprised to see the three top buttons of my shirt were open and there was a medallion hanging around my neck. She smiled at me. “That’s nice. I’ve never seen it before.” Then she gave me a wink and walked past me, saying, “Yes please, darling. Nice and dry.”

  I peered at the medallion and held it in my fingers. She wasn’t the only one who’d never seen it before. It appeared to be a couple of Nordic runes. It also had an inscription on the back. It said, “To my darling son, a gift from the gods. I am with you forever.”

  Then I remembered that high-pitched shout I’d heard as Gorm had disappeared, and I realized what it was. It was him, the great fool, shouting, “Jaysus! I forgot this.”

  A medallion—from my real mother.

  Chapter Three

  I didn’t sleep that night. Any hope of convincing myself the whole thing had been a dream or a hallucination had been shattered by the medallion. I couldn’t find a comfortable position in the bed. Whichever way I tossed or turned, the position was wrong, and I just couldn’t silence my mind. To cap it all, it was a full moon and that pale, almost turquoise misty light filtered through the window and seemed to whisper or sing in my ear.

  One minute, I was on fire with excitement. I was an elf, for crying out loud. And the best archer in the world, like Legolas! How damn cool was that? I saw myself joining the archery club and wowing every chick in town with my skill. And secretly knowing I was of elven descent, I would carry with me a certain charisma of mystery.

  And I was an invincible swordsman. I turned, punched my pillow and gazed at the translucent moonlight. An invincible swordsman. That also was pretty cool. I could join the fencing club, become an unbeaten legend, maybe go into the movies. Again, the air of mystery…money, fame, women…

  I turned over the other way. Outside, an owl hooted. Somewhere, far off in the ancient night of Albion, a fox cried out—if it was a fox. A deep knot of sadness twisted my gut. I didn’t remember much about my mom. I did remember that she was beautiful. The photographs Dad kept of her proved that. She was petite and had the face of an angel. I also remembered she was sweet and kind and gentle. Dad said everybody loved her for that. I thought of the medallion and bit back a lump in my throat. The inscription should have been written by her, but it wasn’t, because she wasn’t my real mother. A wave of desolation swept over me. They had given me up as a laugh—as a joke.

  And Dad. I had always admired my dad. He was cool—always happy, always calm, always had a solution to any problem. He was the rock of Gibraltar. He was my role model, and I wasn’t ashamed to admit it. They had each been a kind of touchstone for me. And it was hard, real hard, to swallow the fact that they weren’t my parents. Somewhere out there was the real Jake Norgard. Will the real Jake Norgard please step forward…to claim my parents?

  * * * *

  The next morning I got up feeling like the empty half of a glass half-empty. Bitter and twisted was the way I was going to feel when I started to feel better. Rosie was quiet on the way to school, for which I was grateful. I eyed her sidelong a couple of times, thinking that she wasn’t even my stepmom anymore.

  On the way through the doors, Ciara passed me and gave me a small smile that meant absolutely nothing. I made eye contact but managed to do absolutely nothing with my face, which I chalked up as a triumph. Score one to Jake the elf. Treat ’em mean and keep ’em keen. I wrenched open my locker and hurled in my bag, slammed and locked the door then marched off toward my first class of the day. Then I had to march back to get my books, and halfway through digging them out of my bag realized I had no idea what class I was attending or what books I needed. What was worse was I didn’t care.

  “I do believe you’re in a funk, old chap.”

  I scowled up. I suddenly resented his damned equanimity, his cool, his confidence. Suddenly it looked to me like complacent self-satisfied arrogance. I said, “Are you always this cool, Sebastian? Don’t you ever get mad, or pissed, or bitter?”

  “Not often, no. By the way, pissed means something else in England.”

  “I don’t care. I don’t know what damned class I’m in. I’m pissed and I don’t want to be here.”

  “Bad night?”

  I snapped around and stared at him. “How do you know that?”

  “I warned you it was unwise to fall in love. Check your timetable.”

  “What?”

  “To see what books you need. Check your timetable. It’s there, on the front of your folder.”

  I glared at the folder and the schedule like it was their fault I hadn’t seen them before and began to grab my books. I felt his hand on my shoulder.

  “Catch you at break, old boy. Chin up.”

  First and second period dragged on for an eternity. I didn’t register a single word the teachers said and earned myself a severe reprimand from Miss Rowbotham, which she pronounced ‘row-bottom’—and the best response I could muster was to think, sourly, what a stupid name she had.

 
Then, at eleven-thirty, everything changed—forever.

  I had signed up for the baseball team. It was a decision I was regretting, because I knew Brutus Muller was bound to be on the team and I wanted to avoid him almost as much as I was beginning to want to avoid Ciara Fionn. And it was exactly those two people I saw in the corridor on my way to the changing rooms. Ciara was backed up against the wall and didn’t look happy. Brutus was leaning over her, one hand against the wall on either side of her head. He was leering down at her. DB was there, laughing, and there were two or three other guys laughing, too. I guessed they were more of his cronies.

  I felt my belly burning, but that sour voice that had been with me all day was telling me, “It’s none of your business, Jake. Walk on and don’t get involved. She belongs to him. And, anyway, she thinks he’s cute and funny, right?”

  But as I drew closer, I could see by her face that she didn’t think he was cute and funny anymore. She looked pretty angry and her green eyes were sparkling in a way that was anything but ambiguous. She was as annoyed as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. I heard her whisper, “Leave me alone!”

  Brutus was saying, “Come on, baby. You know you want to. Give big old Brutus a little kiss…”

  The stupid voice in my head told me she probably did want to, then followed up with something unprintable about what they could both go and do. The voice had moved on to how you could never trust anybody in this world and how girls and women would always let you down in the end, when Brutus took hold of her face with his hand and bent down to kiss her. The hot pellet in my belly turned into a raging fire just as Ciara let out an inarticulate shout and slapped his face. I do believe, in that moment, I felt true joy.